In Memoriam
by Lumosify
Summary: From what I know so far, it seems that I remember only factual details. But one thing perplexes me. I know I should have a name, but I do not know what it is. Would my name not be factual? Or is it a form of expression? Is it because it can be changed that it is not factual at all? / Identity is a fickle thing.


**Written for Round 13 of the QLFC. Tornadoes...whichever way we go, let's go that way with a bang.**

 **(Prompts detailed at the bottom.)**

* * *

June 28th, 1997

Who am I?

I know it is June the 28th, and I know it is 1997. I know the time is 7:38 a.m., and in thirty-two seconds that will change to 7:39 a.m. I know one plus one is two, and I know that e equals mc squared. I know how to speak, understand, read, and write English. I know I am a human female.

I know all these things, but I don't know who I am. Where I am. Why I am. How I am. How am I? I feel what I know to be grief and horror, but I do not know what for. I think back to anything before 7:35 a.m. of today, but all I can see in my mind is dark, pitch-black emptiness. I have no recollection of anything before that.

Did I wake up here? It seems so. I'm in a pale, warm yellow bed. I found this journal beside the bed with an orange pencil, on the wooden bedside table. There's a lamp on the table, and the lampshade matches the bed's color, as does the journal. The curtains flitting over the two open windows are the same shade of yellow. The rest of the room is white. The light filtering through the curtains stains the floor and walls in yellow shadows.

When I pull the sheets off me, I discover that the sheets under the comforter are white as well. The pillows are striped yellow and white. The headboard is the same wood as the bedside table, as is the door to the far left.

These words come easily to me. I know what they are and what they mean. From what I know so far, it seems that I remember only factual details. But one thing perplexes me. I know I should have a name, but I do not know what it is. Would my name not be factual? Or is it a form of expression? Is it because it can be changed that it is not factual at all?

Or perhaps it is the meaningless representation of identity. Many people may share my name. It does not say much about me. It is a label, and the last name is a connection to family. They are not permanent. They are not lasting, unlike the brown eyes and bushy, unruly hair I know for a fact I have.

* * *

It is now 7:49 p.m. I am tired and I would like some rest, but I fear that I may not recall all that has happened tomorrow, when I wake up. I hope I do not lose more of my memory than I already have.

I had attempted to rise from the bed, but using my legs was painful. Or rather, using the top half of my legs was painful; I could not even sense anything lower than that.

During my attempt, I accidentally let go of my pencil, and it clattered to the floor. The sound rang in my ears even after the sound had stopped.

Someone burst into the room, alerted by the noise.

It was a woman, and she told me to call her Ada. She brought me a wheelchair to sit on, and I had wondered how she had known my legs were injured. But I had an aversion to the wheelchair I could not quite explain. My best guess is that dependency frightened me. If that was true, then I must normally be an independent person.

Eventually I gritted my teeth and sat in the wheelchair. I allowed Ada to wheel me out, and as she did so I itched to leap off the chair and run. But I could not feel my knees. I could not feel my calves, or my ankles, or my feet.

Tears stung my eyes. I felt helpless. I must have been very capable, before this memory loss, if even the slightest need of help was enough for me to cry.

Or perhaps I was prideful. Prideful enough to refuse help, whether or not I needed it. If that is the case, I suppose I'll have to become used to depending on others. If my legs remain this way, I may not ever walk by myself again.

I assume the building we are in is Ada's house. It's a one-story house. There were no stairs to cause problems with the wheelchair, and I felt grateful. It would be horrible to be stuck on a top floor until my legs heal, or simply be stuck on a top floor for the rest of my life.

Ada led me to the kitchen. It was more of a kitchen combined with a living room. Three-fourths of it was kitchen, with shiny white counter lining the walls and an island counter with a stove. The floor was the same shiny white as the counter. The last fourth consisted of green-and-brown striped couches and a cream-colored carpet.

Ada wheeled me up to the island counter, and then turned to begin making tea.

She asked me what I remembered. I told her I didn't remember a thing beyond 7:35 a.m. She looked horrified for a moment. Then it was wiped off her face a moment later, to be replaced with a kind, sympathetic face.

She explained how she had found me. There had been some sort of attack, according to her neighbors. Ada did not know the details herself. She had walked out to the battlefield. Everything had taken place at the village square, and she had searched the place with the other villagers, looking for what could be salvaged.

It was there that she had found me. I was alive and conscious, but I was unable to stand because there was something wrong with my legs. I was clutching a wooden stick very tightly. Ada told me I was lucky I had been saved. I thanked her, but Ada only shook her head.

She retrieved the stick I had been holding the day before. I tried to remember what it was for. It was dirty, but it was obviously crafted and not just some random stick. But no matter how long I stared and squinted at the piece of wood, I could not recall a single thing.

I told Ada this, and she nodded. She said that I should keep it, because it was clearly very important to me. Me before the memory loss, that is.

She went on to explain how she had taken me to the village doctor. The doctor could not explain what was wrong with my legs. So she had taken me to her house and let me rest. And after that…she couldn't remember.

I asked her if the whole village was affected by some sort of memory loss. Ada told me that some people did not remember being at the village square during the attack, despite other neighbors insisting they had seen them there. I suggested that some sort of illness was going around, but she pointed out that everyone else had only lost a small part of their memory. I had lost years of mine.

Ada handed me a sheet of parchment. She told me she had discovered it in the pocket of my tattered clothes.

The parchment was covered in strange symbols. I did not recognize them. At the center of it all, the largest symbol. A triangle, with a circle inside it, touching each side of the triangle. A line connecting the top of the triangle to the bottom, cutting straight through the circle.

I asked if I could keep the parchment. Ada said she didn't want it anyway. I tucked it away with the wooden stick, but it did not leave my head. I brooded over the symbols for the rest of the day.

I suppose I should copy the symbols down, but I won't know what they mean any more than I do now. I want to understand everything in this, so I can be reminded of all that I've done, seen, and heard in clear terms. This will be...my travelogue. A recollection of my travels.

* * *

I couldn't sleep. It's a good thing I couldn't, though, because I found something important.

So I turned on my bedside lamp and took out the sheet of parchment. I examined it for about ten minutes before realizing that brown letters were forming on the paper. This I recognized. Lemon juice to write a secret message...and to reveal the message, hold it up to a light source.

I did exactly that, and the words formed more clearly when I held it directly up to the lamp's light. I snatched it down impatiently and began reading, starting with the large symbol at the center of the parchment.

The lemon juice was a translation. Under the large symbol the words "Deathly Hallows symbol" were written. Under each group of symbols, the translation was written in plain English. It told a story of three brothers and the objects each of them requested from Death. At the mention of a wand, I dug out the crafted stick. I had wiped off the dirt earlier, and I could easily see the craftsmanship.

It was silly to think, but why would I carry around a story like this and a fancy stick if they weren't related? I would think that perhaps my old self had never discovered the lemon juice writing, but the handwriting was definitely my own. My old self had written it herself.

But still...a wand? Completely impossible, my factually-inclined mind insists. And how could I prove it, anyway?

Disappointed by the near-dead end, I turned the paper over. There were more words.

"The Burrow - tap parchment with wand and say the passcode: 'safe haven'" was crossed out with a single, thin line. Underneath it said: "Shelter from Ministry, Dark Lord, and Death Eaters – tap with wand and say the passcode: What goes up but never comes down?"

The question is so laughably easy to answer that I doubt asking the question instead of giving the passcode right away would be helpful at all. Or maybe the passcode is the question…

I know I should be more cautious. But if I can't trust my old self, who _can_ I trust?

* * *

So much has happened. Most importantly, I know who I am.

I was whisked off by the parchment. It was like someone had gutted me with a hook and pulled me into empty space by the navel. I didn't know what it was, but it got me to the shelter.

And there were people there. People who knew me. They called me Hermione and screamed about how much they missed me.

And a man named Kingsley explained everything to me.

All my old self's friends are dead. My family is safe because of something my old self had done, but Kingsley hadn't said what exactly it was. My memory had been wiped by the Ministry. The Ministry is in the hands of a group called Death Eaters and their leader, Lord Voldemort. They want to rule Muggles and get rid of Muggleborns; Muggles being non-magical people and Muggleborns being their magical children. Magic is _real_.

Kingsley has already begun to teach me spells so I can fight again. It turns out that I've committed the motions to muscle memory and can do them perfectly, so all I have to do is learn the spells to accompany the movements. It amazes me, how sharp and precise my wand movements are. I don't even have to think about it.

There is a medi-witch named Madam Pomfrey who healed my legs in mere seconds. She says it was a problem with the muscles and blood flow. I memorized the words, but with no context or experience to put them in they simply remained a wall of words in my mind.

I'm worried about the state of the magical world. I'm worried for Ada and her village. I'm worried for Kingsley and the people at the shelter. I want to help in any way I can, and now that I can walk on my own I'd like to begin training to fight better, faster, and stronger.

And I want to visit Ada. She deserves to know what exactly happened to me, the village, and the piece of memory she lost from the mass-memory erasing the Ministry had enacted on the village.

I wish I could meet these friends my old self had. One of them had apparently been the face of the rebellion, and I had been dating another. But they're gone now, along with my old self. It's not a good time to look back, especially when there's no way I can look back at all. So I'll just keep moving.

I'll keep this travelogue with me. It'll be useful, for keeping track of things. And if I lose my memory …I'll have this to pick me back up, especially when there's no Ada around to save me.

When you have no memory or recollection of the past, the only thing to do is move forward.

My name is Hermione Jean Granger. I'm a Muggleborn, and I'm a part of the rebellion again Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

* * *

 **Team: ** Tutshill Tornadoes

 **Position:** Beater 1

 **Round Prompt: ** Direct quote: "Write whatever your heart desires. :D"

 **Word Count:** 2,266 words (excluding Author's Notes)

 **Prompts Used:**

 **Prompt 5:** (style) travel journal

 **Prompt 7:** (setting) dystopian!AU

 **A/N:** Maybe this was a little confusing, but I hope it wasn't. The memory-wiping erased any memories of magic and identity, and left Hermione with basic factual information. I hope that makes sense. :)


End file.
